


His Father's Son

by writeranthea



Category: Amadeus (1984)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Corporal Punishment, Estrangement, Father-Son Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, One Shot, Reconciliation, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22418941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeranthea/pseuds/writeranthea
Summary: Vienna, 1782.Since you love and honour your father, who has sacrificed his entire life for you, you will do what I ask of you.Wolfgang had snorted, had shaken his head and had drowned the rest of the wine from his glass in one go. What had his father ever sacrificed for him?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	His Father's Son

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched Amadeus for the dozenth time and noticed how spankable Wolfgang is (please tell me that I'm not the only one who thinks so) and how much he actually gets on his father's nerves. So with Leopold being the stern man that he is, this story began to form itself in my mind. I really don't have any other apology for this... :-D
> 
> Not betaed, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> A/N: I posted this story on AO3. If you see it on any other website or platform, please consider that I did not consent to it.

Wolfgang had been so excited when he had been delivered a letter from Salzburg - from his father, with whom he had little contact ever since he had left Salzburg, ever since he had quit his position as concertmaster at the court of Hieronymus von Colloredo to pursue his dream in Vienna. He had been grinning in almost childish delight when he had skipped up the stairs into his flat in the Camesinahaus, his hat in one and his father’s letter in the other hand. His smile, however, had faded as soon as he had read the first few lines of his father’s finely written words.

 _Spoilt_ , _conceited_ , _irresponsible_ , _presumptuous_ and _childish_ had apparently only been a selection of the things that the archbishop had titled him with - or so his father had claimed, at least. _I only want to write you so much_ , his father had written. _There are uttermost important news, I will therefore come to Vienna. Since you love and honour your father, who has sacrificed his entire life for you, you will do what I ask of you: do not marry that woman and do not make more shameful debt until I arrive._ There had been no warmth in Leopold’s written words, and instead of a smile, he had worn an expressionless mask on his face that had been so much unlike him as it only could have been. Said mask had remained on his face as he had stood from the canapé with a passive-aggressive motion, had snatched a jug of wine from the nearby sidetable and had thrown the crumpled-up letter into the fireplace, drinking from the wine with large, almost restorative sips while he watched the flames eat away at the paper.

If his eyes had burned as he had kept them fixed on the fire, Wolfgang had ignored it. Albeit the words had long been reduced to ashes, they had continued to haunt him for the rest of the evening and the following night that he had spend slumped in the armchair in front of the fireplace. He had not touched his quill that night, had not brought a single note down onto the papers which had been scattered over his billiard table.

There had been a time when he and his father had been close, even if it was so far in the past that he could not remember it all. When their family had travelled through all of Europe, from court to court and from concert to concert, Wolfgang had felt close to his father. Leopold had always been there for him, had comforted him when he had gotten old enough to start to worry whether he had actually been as good as he was supposed to be and had fulfilled nearly every one of his wishes.

Wolfgang knew, and had known back then that not everyone that he had crossed paths with had seen him as the _Wunderkind_ that he was. Some had made biting remarks about him being nothing more than his father’s trained monkey, nothing more than a tool that Leopold Mozart could use to make himself a known man by selling off his youngest child. While Wolfgang had never believed in accusations of that nature, he had then, as he had gotten himself drunk over the misery that the relationship with his father was, wondered whether they had not been the reason as for why he had decided to leave Salzburg.

Sure, he had not wanted to accept the way that the archbishop had treated him and, most importantly, his music, but there surely would have been away that Wolfgang _could_ have made it work, that he could have stayed in the solid employment rather than trying to shimmy from concert to concert and from private lesson to private lesson. It was more work, indeed it was, but he had never regretted his decision to leave.

His father’s presence had been constantly hovering over him when he had still worked and lived in Salzburg. Even once Wolfgang had gotten older, past the age of twenty, his father had not stopped treating him as if he had been nothing but a boy in need of guidance. _Since you love and honour your father, who has sacrificed his entire life for you, you will do what I ask of you._ Wolfgang had snorted, had shaken his head and had drowned the rest of the wine from his glass in one go. 

What had his father ever sacrificed for him?

It had been _him_ who had needed to sacrifice more than he had ever wanted to simply to please his father. He was twenty-six, and had still needed his father’s permission to marry the woman that he loved and his father disliked. After Wolfgang’s mother had died, his father had, unintentionally or not, driven a wedge between Wolfgang and Maria Anna, his much beloved sister. _His father_ had done so much that had hurt Wolfgang in one way or another, and yet the young composer had failed to stop himself from harbouring high hopes for the visit that his father would pay to him.

Constanze had asked him, during that evening, whether he loved his father. _“He is my father,”_ had been all that Wolfgang had retorted before he had refilled his glass and had drunk half of it within a few seconds. It had been the truth: he was his father, and Wolfgang had known that he was supposed to love his father. He was his father’s son, but every time that he had thought about it, he had been shown the stark differences between them. That Leopold Mozart had always been a stern man had been widely known and Wolfgang often wondered how it had been possible that he had turned out so different. His father valued _duties_ and _prestige_ so much that he rarely ever allowed himself to participate in anything related to fun.

With all the resentment that he had harboured for his father, it would have been a blatant lie if Wolfgang would have said that he had not, in a way, still loved him. Of course he had, even if he had not directly admitted it to Constanze.

There had not only been bad times, and if he would get _truly_ drunk, Wolfgang had found himself yearning for the feeling of his father’s arms around him. That it had been to no avail, that there had simply been too many differences between him and his father for them to get along, he had been very much aware of, and so he had proceeded to get drunk with the aspiration of not thinking about the ruined relationships that he had with the few members of his family. He had known that there would be a time when he himself would become a father.

What kind of paragon could he possibly act after? _Since you love and honor your father, who has sacrificed his entire life for you, you will do what I ask of you: do not marry that woman and do not make more shameful debt._ Sleep had overpowered him eventually, long after the first rays of the early morning sun had begun to illuminate his study.

“When was the last time you ate something, Wolfgang?” His sweet Stanzerl, always so concerned about his well-being. Wolfgang did not answer from where he was bend over the billiard table in the posture that he could concentrate in the best. “Wolfgang!”

“I will eat once I finished this,” he answered without looking up, running a hand through his disheveled hair while dipping his quill into the inkwell. Four days had passed since he had been delivered his father’s letter, which meant that it could not be long until Leopold Mozart would present himself. Wolfgang was more agitated by it than he ever would have admitted, and he tried to cover it up by throwing himself into his work.

It had since become a normality for him: working through the nights, fuelled by the music that he could already hear in his mind and the generous supply of wine that was stashed in their larder. He flinched when he felt a hand on his back.

“I worry about you.”

Wolfgang did turn his head to look at her, swallowing hard at the expression on her face. “I know that you do, Stanzerl. But you must believe me that there is no reason for you to worry, I am perfectly fine.” He pushed himself up onto his hands with a suppressed sigh to kiss her, which earned him a shout sound of protest. “I promise.”

“I shall believe you then. I will be gone until afternoon, I have an engagement to attend to.”

As much as he appreciated his wife’s presence, Wolfgang let out a very audible sigh of relief when he heard the door being closed. He had underestimated how greatly another person could disturb him in his work. Discarding the inked papers in front of him for no longer than a minute, he hurried into the larder to retrieve an armful of bottles and set them into a row on the billiard table. Just so that they would not get in the way of his ball, of course. The music on his mind was becoming too much to simply let it rest on there, and even if he would have been hungry, he would have finished writing first.

Not only would Constanze come back - but his father would as well, made worse by the fact that he did not know _when_. A shudder went through him as he picked up his quill. He certainly did not want to think about _that_.

Wolfgang ended up writing down the last of the notes just after midday and before he had even collected all of the papers and had stashed them in a cladder, he was already contemplating which one of the peaces on his mind he should write down next. “Work, work, work,” he muttered to himself before he took the last sip of wine and ran both of his hands through his hair, huffing as if to strengthen himself - nearly smacking his own forehead when he remembered that he had been invited to an audience with Joseph II at two o’clock sharp.

It had turned out better than Wolfgang had imagined it would be. If he were to judge by the way that His Majesty had looked at him for the entire duration of the audience, he was confident to say that he had managed to earn his favour by improving the march that Salieri had written for him after listening to it once. It was what he had come to Vienna for, after all, to leave a lasting impression where it really counted.

Good news! _Finally_ some good news, he thought proudly, and Wolfgang did have a zest in his gait as he walked through the city, swiftfully avoiding one fiacre after another. Constanze would surely be satisfied to hear of it, meaning that it would make it easier for him to give himself fully to his music. He had unknowingly begun to hum a tune as soon as he had stepped out of the Hofburg, and he was still huming as he unlocked the entrance door of the _Camesinahouse_ , letting it fall shut behind him. _Finally!_

Being buried in his thoughts as he was, it was only _after_ he had taken the first few steps of the main staircase that he had noticed the figure standing at the top of the stair. The sudden discovery frightened him somewhat, causing him to hurry the steps he had taken back down.

He took another step backwards, despite having already stepped down the stairs, when the figure turned around and revealed its face.It was his father; dressed in an all-black travel attire and presenting the stern expression that was his trademark Leopold Mozart stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at his son with eyes that could have said it all and nothing at the same time. Wolfgang swallowed, feeling his heart somersault when a tidal wave of emotions washed over him that he rather would not have experienced.

It was a childish hope, almost in childish credulity, that caused Wolfgang to yearn for those things that he had usually only thought about in a non-sober mind - and the fact that his father spread out his arms, for him, only fuelled them more. With a delighted shout of “Papa!” and a smile on his face he ran, nearly stumbled up the stairs and threw himself into the offered embrace.

His father did not say a word as he closed his arms around him and Wolfgang squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to not think about how they had parted the last time that they had seen each other. Maybe there was still hope of reconciliation, of them having a better relationship again. Wolfgang had not forgotten that it had always been his mother’s wish...

“Why are you here?”

A stupid question, really, but one that had left his lips before he could have thought about it and his father loosened his arms from around him, stepping back to eye him from his head to his feet. “Am I not welcomed?”

He swallowed, and his smile did appear a bit more strained. “Of course you are weclomed. Welcome, Papa! Welcome.” He swallowed yet again as he hurried past his father to unlock the door to his flat. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”

“Very much so.”

He let out a laugh, and turned the key once more before the door opened. “Come in, Papa, come in! I am certain that you would like to wind down a bit.”

Leopold did not answer as he followed him into the flat. Despite the fact that their greeting had went by relatively well, considering how they had parted the last time, it started to deteriorate faster than Wolfgang could have noticed it. It began when his father stumbled and, God forbid, nearly fell over the half a dozen empty wine glasses that he had positioned near the door for Constanze to take them away. He had tried to laugh it off, of course, just as he had laughed off countless of things in his life, but his laughter failed to reach his father as he had wanted it to. He had felt his father’s burning gaze on him as he quickly bend down to collect the bottles and line them up in the corridor instead while Leopold shrugged off his coat.

“You are thin,” his father said once Wolfgang had closed the door behind him, “does _your wife_ not feed you enough?”

He managed a smile. “Oh, but she is feeding me too much, Papa! I promise!”

“Is she here?”

“No, she is... away at an engagement.”

It appeared that it was the answer that Leopold had wanted to hear, and Wolfgang felt himself shrinking a bit when he noticed how his father was looking around with narrowed eyes. He would have tidied up if he would have known that his father had been due to arrive that day.

“I...”, he set on, but trailed off and hurried to grab the empty glass as well as the empty bottle that he had left on the top of his spinet. “It usually does not look like this, Papa.”

“Do you not have any servants?”

“Nono, Constanze prefers to do it all on her own.”

“I see.”

Giving another one of his nervous laughs, Wolfgang dashed to the kitchen to get rid of the treacherous proof - only to remember that he had left the biggest one right underneath his father’s nose, and the sound that reached him told him that his father had found it. It was not more than a clearing of his throat that his father made, but it was so direct that it caused pinpicks of fear to tingle at Wolfgang’s spine.

“Is this where you work?” 

Albeit having been a question, Leopold’s voice did not leave any real space for an answer that would differ from what the man wanted to hear. “Uh... what?” Trying to put on an act of innocence while wiping his sweaty palms at his breeches at the same time, Wolfgang exited the kitchen to find his father standing on the swell of his study.

Leopold’s stern face would have been more expressive if it would have been carved into marble. “I asked you whether this is where you work or not.”

As tempting as it may have been, he knew that it would have been in vain for him to try and lie to the man that had raised him. “Uh -”

“Watch how you are speaking to me, _Wolfgang Amadé_.”

The thin façade of hope that he had build up was beginning to crack. “I apologise, Papa,” he said with a short bow of his head. “Yes, it is where I work.” His father looked at him, then at the files, inkwells and bottles, empty as well as full, that he had left there before he had attended the audience, prior to turning sharply to take seat at the round table in the lobby. Wolfgang let out a breath that he had not been aware of having held in and closed his eyes for a short second before he hurried to join his father. “Would you like something to drink, Papa?”

“Tea.”

“Of course.”

He disappeared into the kitchen anew, hurring to find a cup, a fitting saucer and the matching teapot that he could present to his father after he had set a pot onto the stove to warm the water. Once he had added the dried leaves, he plopped down on a stool, closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face in a repetative motion. He did not want to argue with his father again, did not want them to part after an arguement... but he, at the same time, was not ready to be belittled and patronized yet again.

There were reasons as for why he had left Salzburg in the first place. Wolfgang stayed on the stool until the pot hissed and the water was ready to be poured into the teapot, placing it as well as the cup and its saucer onto a tray to carry it to where his father was sitting. “Here you go, Papa.”

Leopold merely answered with a sharp nod before he gestured to the free chair opposite of his, “Sit down. I wish to talk to you.”

“Of course, yes of course, Papa.”

The few minutes of silence that followed were terrible on Wolfgang, who was clenching his hands with hopes that his father would not notice it.

“I want you to return to Salzburg with me, son.”

“What?” Leopold threw a dark look at him. It failed to make him back down. “ _What?!_ ”

“Language!”

“No, you cannot just come to me and-” Wolfgang sank back down into his chair after his father’s hand had shot out and had smacked him across the face, leaving a burning mark behind. While it had been far from the hardest hit that his father could have delivered, since it had rather been just a warning pat, it was enough to not only push him dangerously close to the edge of tears but to ruin his hopes as well.

“You are testing me today, Wolfgang, and you should know that I will never accept it. Sit down!”

Blinking hard, he brought a hand up to cup the sore side of his face. “I am sorry,” he whispered without meeting his father’s gaze.

“I want you to return to Salzburg with me,” Leopold merely repeated as if nothing had happened in the meantime, “I have spoken with His Grace Archbishop Colloredo and he is willing to grant you a second chance, Wolfgang. I demand you to take it.”

He watched how his father poured himself a cup of tea, the sharp pain in his cheek since having ebbed down to a bearable level. “I cannot do so, Papa.”

“You cannot.” The calmness that underlined Leopold’s words was a dangerous one, Wolfgang knew that well enough.

“I cannot,” he repeated, careful as to not raise his voice. One smack had been more than enough. “His Majesty assigned me to writing an opera, Papa. It will be in German.”

Leopold clearly had not expected to hear such a thing, cocking an eyebrow as he set down his cup to look at his son. “When were you assigned?”

“Just today, Papa. I was on the way home from the audience. I-I cannot leave Vienna!”

“I am certain that you will be able to leave after your duties for His Majesty are completed.”

“I...”

Instead of hitting him again, Leopold banged his fist onto the table. It made Wolfgang flinch nonetheless. “I am having it with you, Wolfgang! All I hear about _my_ son are stories about _his wife_ , who apparently has a liking of coming together with men, and about the _debts_ that he makes because he is not willing to stop behaving like a defiant child!”

There they were again. How he had even been so gullible as to believe that there had even been the slightest bit of chance that he and his father might put their differences aside. It was hopeless, and he apologised to his mother in the silence of his mind. _I am sorry, Mama, oh I am sorry but I cannot deal with him._ “Is that what you came to Vienna for? Could you not have stated your desire of my return in the kind letter that you send me?”

Father and son stared at each other. “I always knew that that Weberin would not do you any good,” Leopold snarled, “is she the one that pushed you into drinking?”

“You know _nothing!_ ”, he shouted, jumping up from his chair so forcefully that it caused it to topple over. “Nothing! Why did you not just stay in Salzburg and allowed me to live in peace?”

Before his father could have stood, or hit him again, Wolfgang had bolted through the lobby and into his study, throwing the door close behind him. How could he have been so foolish! He felt tears rise into his eyes, a burning that he despised and yet could not suppress, and he paced back and forth in front of the billiard table with the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes hard enough for it to hurt.

He should have known that his father did not... love him enough to be willing and at least try to reconciliate. As he stopped in his tracks to try and make out any sound from the adjoining room, he heard a dull _thump_ that could have matched with the sound of a suitcase being moved. Was his father leaving again? Wolfgang decided to, quite frankly, ignore him and forced his mind to focus solely on his music. It was easier than he would have expected it, and he uncorked one of the remaining bottles of wine, took a couple of large gulps from it before he sat it aside and pulled his quill out of the inkwell.

His music would never disappoint his expectations. It never had, and he knew that it never will. He went back to humming, quickly bringing the notes down onto the sheet in front of him with one while absentmindedly playing with a billiards ball with his other hand.

The apparent renaissance of silence did not last for long. A graceless squeal escaped him when the door was opened and came in contact with the wall _after_ he had foolishly made himself believe that his father had left to find another place to stay until he was due to return to Salzburg, and he jumped into an upright position - freezing when his eyes landed on his father, or rather the short leather strap that he was holding in his right hand.

He shook his head and moved around the table, backwards in order to not lose sight of his father. “No.”

“I will, whether you like it or not.”

Wolfgang felt his throat closing up by the lump that had formed in it and even though his mind yelled at him to run, his legs refused to take any further step, causing his heart to somersault as his father approached him with a menacing slowness.

“You cannot.” It almost sounded like a plea and he took a small, utterly futile step away when Leopold came to stand in front of him, looming in the way that made Wolfgang feel as if he had been reduced to a young boy. He whimpered when he was, quite suddenly, grabbed by the collar of his shirt.

“I can.”

“No, you cannot!” His heart was racing terribly fast, he knew that he had indeed been nothing but a boy the last time that his father had resorted to punish him like this. “Let go of me!”

“I knew that I should have hindered you from leaving Salzburg,” was all that his father said as he dragged him back to the head of the billiard table, to the spot that Wolfgang had spend countless of hours bend over. Only then it had been to write his music, not to get punished like a disobedient child.

“Please.” He did not care that his voice had dropped to a whisper, and neither did he care that he was openly begging his father. The grip on his collar was used to pull him up until he had no choice but to met his father’s gaze. He then knew why his father had not stormed after him right away, why he had lingered in the lobby for a good quarter of an hour. There was no anger on Leopold’s face, none of the fury that had stood on it before, only... disappointment and something that could have been concern. Even though Wolfgang cursed his father for many things that he had done, he needed to admit that his father had never, not once, punished him or his sister in anger. It did not make the prospect of being beaten any more appealing, and so he did not back down from trying to appease him. “Papa,” he tried again, “please do not do that. Can we not talk a-as adults?”

Leopold did not answer, deliberately letting a few second of silence pass between them, and when he did finally speak, he raised the hand with which he was holding the strap. Wolfgang had only ever felt it once before - when he, as a ten-year-old, had tried to run away. It had been an utterly hopeless attempt, planned in the ingenuous mind of a child, and the punishment that had followed had been the worst he had ever received. To that day, that was. He had no doubts that _this_ would be much worse, for he had been a ten-year-old back then, not an adult.

“Talk as adults?” Leopold’s voice could not have been any more frightening if he would have risen it instead of keeping it at a low, dangerously calm and controlled volume. “Do you expect me to _sit down_ and talk with you after you behaved like a petulant, ill-mannered child? Oh no, boy, I will not sit down and _talk_ with you.” Wolfgang hated the way that his father was seemingly able to reduce him to that child due to the way that he talked to him. It caused his knees to feel weak and his hands had since flown to his backside as if to shield it, his chin wobbling despite his best effort to remain stoic. “You know that I am doing this because you are my son, Wolfgang, because I love you and because it is my _duty_ , as your father, to correct you if you step out of line.”

With the certainty of what he had to expect, Wolfgang felt a surge of anger that was a proof of his distress rather than anything else when he father moved them both until he stood dangerously close to the edge of the table. Stemming his heels into the ground, he used all of his strength to try and wind out of the grip that his father had on the collar of his shirt. “No! You cannot, you _will not!_ ” He believed to hear the sound of angels ascending on him when he succeeded to free himself, and he knew that he must have looked just as stunned as his father as he jumped backwards to put space between them. “I am twenty-six years old, you cannot-”

“That is _it!_ ”

Before Wolfgang had a chance to react, Leopold had pounced onto him and had grabbed him by the back of his neck instead of his shirt, and his heart tumbled into the pit of his stomach when he realised that he stood no chance against him. “Papa, _please_.”

It was to no avail. He was dragged back to the head of the table and found himself bend over within an instant. His chest connected with the surface of the table, knocking the breath from his lungs and pressing his cheek into the stack of sheets that he had written on before. The wine bottles clirred from the impact when Wolfgang tried to help himself back onto his feet, but his father simply continued to hold him down until his desperate struggles ceased. He was certain that his face was burning in a bright read, he never would have expected to find himself in such a position again.

“Let me up!” His attempt to push himself off the table was rewarded with his father simply grabbing both of his wrists and pinning them in the small of his back.

“I am already quite sorely displeased with you, do not add annoyance to it!”, Leopold retorted with a hiss, and Wolfgang gave two more, rather pathetic wiggles before he calmed and huffed.

While he had been struggling to free himself, he downright froze when he felt the fingers that hooked themselves underneath the waistband of his breeches - and his underwear. “I am too old-”

“You are never too old to be disciplined.” Gasping, he squeezed his eyes shut when his father bared his backside with only one hand and three very skilled tugs. “I did it when you were six, I should have done it when you were sixteen and if you were _thirty-six_ I would hardly care.”

“Papa, no...”

Leopold let go of his wrists, but only to switch the hand that he was holding the strap with. Wolfgang winced when he felt the implement on his back, a promise, or a threat, of what he had to expect. “I should have done it earlier.” With that, the first hit landed on Wolfgang’s backside. To feel the first smack was always the worst. Not so much because of the pain, of course, as it would only get much worse in a very short time, but because the first burn and the first resounding, _embarrassing_ sound of naked skin being hit would cause the realisation to sink in that it was indeed happening.

Wolfgang had a hard time believing that he was truly bend over his table with his trousers haunched around his knees. He was twenty-six years old, for God’s sake! He had since made a name for himself, he was someone, he was anything but a child that could have belonged in that position! Once his father had apparently trusted him to not try to escape his arms were released, and Wolfgang quickly crossed and hid his face in them before they could have been captured again. His father knew what he was doing. One of Leopold’s hand, the one than was holding the damned strap, was splayed in the small of his back and thus held him down in the most efficient way.

 _Smack, smack, smack, smack._ Alternating between his cheeks, his father brought a burn to his backside that he had since forgotten and considering that it was only the beginning of his punishment, he was more embarrassed than in pain. _Smack._ “I should have known that you would get in trouble,” Leopold began his scolding, his hand not faltering in the rhythm that it landed the volley of hits onto Wolfgang’s unfortunate backside. _Smack, smack, smack, smack._ Wolfgang squeezed his eyes and lips together where he held his face hidden in his arms, trying to think of anything but the fact that he was being spanked by his father.“I should have _known_ that you would _fail_ to _behave_ _appropriately_ , that you would get in _trouble_ and that you simply _would not know when it is enough!_ ” His father accentuated his words with hits that were even harder then the once that he had already brought down, and Wolfgang failed to hide a gasp when four of them struck the back of his thighs.

“You are _conceited_ , _irresponsible_ and _presumptuous_ ,” his father went on, not interrupting his punishing rhythm as he continued to pay attention to the spots of Wolfgang’s backside that would carry his weight if he would sit down.

“You are _spoilt_ , you _do not_ _know_ how to _behave_ if the situation _demands_ it and I _cannot_ _believe_ that you seem to have _forgotten_ about the _respect_ that _I am due to get from you!_ ” As quickly as Leopold had hit his sit spots, he went back to alternating between Wolfgang’s backside cheeks again and the young man failed to keep himself from gasping every time that his father’s hand cracked down. It hurt. Oh, it hurt. He tried to kick with his legs, but his trousers around his knees hindered him from doing so. They did not prevent him from moving his hips from side to side in a futile attempt to prevent the next hit to hit its target. It always hit and to show that he did not appreciate his son’s behaviour, Leopold increased the strength that he would hit Wolfgang’s sit spots.

“Yes, I should have done _this_ sooner.” His father fell into wordless silence after that and Wolfgang felt a sharp stab in his chest when he found himself longing for a scolding. He could not have explained it, of course, but the fact that his father was hitting him, positively heating up his backside with an arm that did not seem to tire, only made it easier for the tears to rise into his eyes.

His hands were balled into fists and he pressed his face a little further into the crook of his arm when he realised that him giving in to the tears would be inevitable. His father yet had to hit him with the strap, and his backside was already throbbing in pain. The first cry escaped him when Leopold decided to pay unfortunate attention to his sit spots yet again. Wolfgang bit his lip, trying to stop himself from crying out as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“It was not my intention to come to visit you to do this, Wolfgang,” his father went on, “but I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself.” The dam was broken. He drew in a gasped intake of breath, a sob catching in his throat, and Leopold did not stop the onslaught when he the first sob escaped him. “I wish that I would not have to do this, son, but if I can make sure that you will _stop_ being so _self-destructive_ by giving you a _spanking_ _that you will not forget_ , than it is what I have to do.”

“P-Papa-”

“Do you have any idea how worried I was when I heard how _much_ you are drinking? When I was told that you are working through _nights_ without _an ounce_ of _consideration_ about what if will do to you and your health?”

“I’m s-sorry.”

“You will be sorry, Wolfgang.”

Unbeknownst to him, his father had decided to lay one more round of open-handed smacks onto his backside before he would pick up the strap and by the time that the last hit landed, Wolfgang was openly crying. He had no idea that his father could hit so hard, for he had certainly never hit him like _that_ when he had been a child. His entire backside seemed to be on fire, throbbing and burning bad enough for him to believe that he would never sit down again.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, keeping his face firmly hidden as the tears, sobs and desperate little gasps escaped him without any hindrances.

“Hush, now is not the time for apologies.” His father’s voice was determinant and left no possible room for backtalk, and yet it was more gentle than it had been directed at him in a long time.

“I’m sorry, I-I’m sorry,” he sobbed nonetheless, clenching his hands together so tightly that it hurt. It was nothing compared to the pain in his backside.

“Hush, Wolfgang, hush.” Leopold ran a hand in circles over the small of Wolfgang’s back, a gesture that was so small and yet so significant to the young composer. “You are doing so well.”

Thinking that his punishment was over and that he was spared the strap, he uncrossed his arms and moved to push himself off the table. When his father pushed him back down with a gentle, albeit overpowering hand, Wolfgang felt a cold rush of fear washing over him. “No,” he whispered between his sobs, twisting his head to get a look at his father. “P-Papa, ple-ase do-on’t use _tha-at._ _Please_.”

Leopold did not answer, not verbally at least. He shook his head and took the strap so that his son could see him doing so. Wolfgang lowered his head back down onto the top of the table with another, desperate sob. “You brought it onto yourself. What did you think would happen if I would find out?” It was clear that Leopold did not expect him to answer, and so he merely continued to cry while wishing that he was somewhere else than bend over the billiard table with his backside bared, already burning and awaiting the bite of the strap. “Are you listening to me, son?”

“Uh-huh.”

Even though Wolfgang could not have seen it, his father smiled down at him. “Good. You will get twenty-six lashes with the strap.”

He barely registered the hand that was running circles on his back, “I’m sorry, I’m so-orry that I disa-disappointed you Pa-Papa.”

“I know that you are.” Wolfgang crossed his arms to bury his face in them once more, truly feeling like a chastised child rather than the man that he was. How could he not, since his father was talking to him in a way that he had not done since he had indeed been nothing but a child? He knew that his sobs were not only fuelled by the pain in his backside, which would become even worse, and he would only later find out that his father had noticed as well. “There is no need for you to count them.”

The hand did not disappear from his back, but stilled in its comforting gesture to hold him down again. His entire body tensed when he felt the cool of the leather against his mournfuly unprotected backside. He knew that it would hurt; his father was skilled when it came to brandishing the implement.

 _Thwack!_ Once his father had put the first of the agonizing stripes over the very middle of his backside, he resumed the scolding. But all that Wolfgang was able to concentrate on was the pain. It was worse than he remembered it - it was of no surprise, however, as he had already come to the conclusion that his father had been hitting him harder as he had been hitting him when he had been a child. “I cannot believe that my “ _thwack!_ “son has turned out to be so petulant,” _thwack!_ “irresponsible,” _thwack!_ “and prodigal.” _Thwack!_

Wolfgang had lost the remaining bit of his composure when the strap had came in contact with his backside for the second time, accompanying every lash with a sharp cry and devastated sob. He would promise to never touch another glass of wine if only the onslaught would stop. “I promised your mother” _thwack!_ “that I would take care” _thwack!_ “of you as I have done it ever since you have been born” _thwack!_ “and I would be damned” _thwack!_ “if I would stand by” _thwack!_ “and watch you destroy” _thwack!_ “yourself.” _Thwack, thwack!_

The strap disappeared from the abused skin of Wolfgang’s backside, even if it should only be for a short few moments. “Breathe, Wolferl,” his father said and a new swell of tears broke out of him at the usage of his childhood name. “Breathe, you are doing so fine.”

He was shook by a cough. The pain was too much for him to describe it, his entire backside, down to the top of his thighs felt as if it had been burned by a torch. He would never, ever be able to sit down at his spinet. Never ever again! And while he would have liked to rage, to curse his father for what he was doing, Wolfgang knew that he deserved it and if he would have been able to think, he would have come to the conclusion that he had yearned after so much attention from his father.

Even if it would come hand in hand with a bruised backside. He was his father’s son, after all. No matter how many times they would yell at each other and no matter how often Wolfgang would move to put distance between them, he would still continue to be his father’s son. “I-I’m s-so-orry,” he sobbed, no longer shifting his weight or trying to twist his backside out of the way, simply laying there, bend over the table that he spend the majority of his time working at.

“I know, son, I know. Thirteen more, alright?” He managed a weak nod, and braced himself by screwing his eyes shut and holding his breath when he perceived how his father took a step backwards and tapped the leather strap against his backside twice.

 _T_ _hwack, thwack, thwack!_ It was clear that Leopold was trying to get it over with himself, and so he merely held Wolfgang’s hips down and listened to his cries and sobs as he whipped him with skilful precision. _Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack!_ There was no doubt: it was by far the worst punishment he had ever received, and he suddenly wished that he never would have left Salzburg in the first place. “I care about you, Wolferl.” _Thwack!_ “More so,” _thwack!_ “than you will probably ever” _thwack!_ “be able to understand.” _Thwack, thwack, thwack!_ Wolfgang cried out, bucked and went slack, letting out the most hearbreaking of sobs. Leopold unceremoniously dropped the strap to the floor to but both of his hands onto Wolfgang’s shoulders. “Up you go, son.”

It took him a few seconds to fully understand that the punishment was over with. Wincing as he stood, he quickly turned away to hide his face from his father. What he expected, he did not know, but it rather would have been his father turning around and leaving than finding himself being spun around and pulled into an embrace. “I love you, Wolferl. Do not ever forget that you are my son, and that I love you.”

For the second time that afternoon, he broke. Letting out a sob of relief he sacked into his father’s arms, clinging onto him as if he might drown if he would not. His father only hugged him closer. “I’m s-so so-orry Papa,” he sobbed, a confession that he repeated over and over again. He could not have kept it within him. “I-I pro-omise to be a-a be-etter s-son.”

“You are the best son that I could have asked for, Wolferl,” his father only whispered, something that was as unlike Leopold Mozart as it only could have been but fit so perfectly in the moment that it did not cause Wolfgang to wonder about it. His father ran one had up and down his back in an attempt to calm him while he kept the other in the back of his neck. “And... when we argue, it does never mean that I do not love you.” Wolfgang nodded, another sob escaping him as he allowed his father to take a hold of his chin and thus force him to meet his gaze. “You must take better care of yourself, Wolfgang. I could not bear to bury another one of my children, especially not you.”

“I-I will, Papa.”

_Fin._


End file.
